A Demon's Promise
by GraceoftheFallen
Summary: One-shot: Written for a dear friend. The Demon Prince of Pride, Mephistopheles, finds himself meeting his end within the cold, lonesome embrace of a forest. Never did he think that an angel of a different sort would arrive, pulling him from the very depths of despair itself.


_What a pathetic way to die_, the demon thought, a wry smile playing across already paling lips as Mephistopheles leans back against a tall oak tree, crimson eyes staring blankly upward towards the sparse rays of moonlight shining down between the leaves. This world was always such a beautiful place, he supposed dying upon its surface wasn't an entirely horrid thing, somewhat peaceful even, though he feared what awaited him in the realms beyond. His father was not precisely the most forgiving of entities.

Struggling, haggard gasps came to him, his chest tightening as he feels his very blood trying to strangle the life from his small body; pathetic, weak, in such a state for a reason that was both foolish and rather childish, now that he thought on the subject. _But he will be happy...he will have his meal, and his reward; that isn't entirely horrible, is it...?_ A bead of crimson rolls down the demon's chin as he tries to form a smile, features softening at the toss of his hair in perhaps the last breeze he will ever know.

But then, there it was, a soft, gentle scent that drifted to his nose and made his stomach roll with a hunger he dare not sate. A pure soul had stumbled into this lonely wood, already able to hear the light, crunching footsteps of what he believed to be a child stumbling and crashing ever closer. How wonderful, he thought bitterly, that he should have an audience as he lie dying slowly, drowning in his own blood; how frightened this poor little soul would be. However when he locked eyes with raindrop-colored orbs he found not fear, at least, not the lingering sort, supposing the state he was in must have shocked the boy into a protective sort of instinct, though Mephistopheles were hardly aware of it, his vision beginning to blur at the oncoming mess of golden blonde curls racing towards him.

There was a cry from a voice so sweet he couldn't help but smile, however the words went poorly understood, his hearing beginning to evade him, jolting only when two soft, warm hands gently caress either side of his cheeks, drawing his eyes back to those beautiful, innocent blues. Trembling...the boy were trembling; so he were afraid of him. Or perhaps not him entirely, but the presence of Death so strongly in the air, Mephistopheles croaking a laugh as he tries to comfort the child who looked at him with such heartbreaking concern, "Y-your name...?"

Hesitation: the boy did not seem to enjoy his name, a little sadness coming to the demon's smile as the boy tells him anyway, "Jim. Jim Macken; and you shouldn't talk, mister. You're in a bad way..."

A chuckle, a weak nod, and Mephistopheles replies, his eyes already hanging heavily, "Yes, indeed I am...'tis most unfortunate, I will agree, Jim Macken."

The hands left his cheek, mourning the loss of warmth, however the demon would not complain; he found it strangely comforting to have company in his hour of need. Then with frightening clarity he heard his robes being tampered with, the soft whisper of clothing peeling away, and an old fright long thought forgotten consumes him like a disease, his hand gripping at a far too slender wrist to pull the boy's hand away, however if young master Macken seemed distressed, he gave little sign, instead greeting the demon's protests with a stubborn glare, "I have to find the wound so I can cover it, mister. Now stop being such a baby and let me go."

A "baby", were he? There was a time when the Prince of Pride would have taken the child's tongue for so small an insult, however now he merely laughed, nodding weakly once more as his hand falls from the slender wrist, closing his eyes as he leans back against his tree once more, "Very well, master Macken; I am at your disposal."

"Good. Now hold still," a ripping sound filled the air; the child was tearing at his already worn and threadbare coat, all to make him proper wrappings; the kindness of mortals was a surprising thing at times, only a hiss coming from Mephistopheles as the child guides his torso forward, beginning to wrap the thread around his chest, "how'd you get these, mister?"

He very much doubted the boy would believe him, recalling the fight between another of his once-upon-a-time brothers; he had tried to save the child. Truly, he had fought so desperately to keep the boy and his family safe, however his brother _knew_ he were weak, _knew_ there was little Mephistopheles could do against him. And so an innocent woman lost her life, her husband soon after in a raging fire as his Grace was stolen away, though not for long. As much as he regretted it, he knew Fate would reunite his Grace with the demon meant to consume it; he only wished it had not cost the lives of two innocent mortals in the process, "A wolf, master Macken. I fear I have rather poor luck with canines..."

"These aren't wolf marks. Besides..." With a gruesome gurgling, the child slashes at his own throat with his thumb, a small, pink tongue lulling from the side of his mouth before a chorus of playful giggles fills the air, "If it was a wolf, he'd have gone for your throat. This wasn't a wolf, but it must've been something scary all the same..." The demon could see the child eyeing his wound, how easily blood seeped between the thin fabric of his wrappings; it broke his heart to see such despair on one so young, "The wound isn't closing..."

"No, I fear not. Nor will it..." Laughing lightly, he groans as he struggles to sit upright, tenderly holding his hand over the crimson stain to spare the boy of the sight of it, if only for a little while, "I fear it is because I've not eaten properly; a body cannot survive without proper nourishment...or so an old colleague of mine used to scold constantly. Though sadly he is otherwise occupied, and will be for quite some time-"

"You talk a lot for a dying man, mister."

A bark of laughter, one that cost quite a bit of pain to his ribs, but he couldn't stop himself, "Yes, I suppose I do, master Macken."

A tilt of his head, a small furrowing of his brow and the scrunched, curious face was all together endearing, an angelic little creature sitting before his knees asked him a question the demon knew would soon chase him away, "What's your name, mister...?"

And so he hesitates, much as the child had when he had asked the very same question, his face becoming an unreadable mask as he meets the boy's eyes once more, shimmering in the pale moonlight a crimson nearly as dark as that beneath his chest, "I am Mephistopheles, one of the Seven Princes of Gehenna who you are now witnessing the end to."

"So you're a demon...?" The fact that he remained alone brought a shocked look to the demon's eyes, frowning a little as the boy continues, as if he had merely told him the day was his birthday, "The Father told me once that if you help a demon, you go to hell..."

"You'll not go to hell, master Macken," a kind smile shows on Mephistopheles' lips, reaching a trembling hand to ruffle his hair, before it slides from the child once more with an exhausted sigh, "an act of kindness does not send one to the pits."

Continuing, the child scoots closer, his knees now pressed against the demon's as he leans forward with a slightly deeper frown, "He _also_ told me that demons can drink blood, and grow stronger. Not the same as a soul, but I can't give you that right now; my little brother depends on me-"

"I'll not have you harming yourself for my-"

"So it's true then? My blood could heal you?" A clever little spit, much to Mephistopheles' despair, the boy wearing a mischievous smirk when he sees that his answer was indeed true, "You're a strange sort of demon, aren't you? Aren't you supposed to be happy to be drinking blood and eating souls?"

"You make us sound like complete, gluttonous monsters, master Macken; should I take offense at your implications?"

"You talk funny too."

"I am rather old, dear boy."

"You don't look old..." Leaning upward, there was little Mephistopheles could do as the child bites into that slender wrist of his, the scent alone drawing the crimson shimmer to his eyes once more as Jim tauntingly places the bleeding wound beneath his nose, "I think you're very pretty, actually."

_The kindness of mortals_, he thinks once more, before sharpened canines dig into the tiny wrist, being as gentle as his hunger would allow as he begins to drink heavily of the warm, gushing life that rushes across his tongue and down his throat, the taste so pure for a moment he mistakes it for the holy light that had once protected his body from such things. Only a tremble could be felt from the small boy, this Jim Macken that so willingly gave himself to the wolves, the sweet, innocent smile never fading as he watches far too happily as he were being consumed by a creature of the pits. Heartbreaking, this pure soul was slowly destroying him, and yet with each greedy swallow Mephistopheles knew that he would gladly shatter into a thousand pieces if it would only keep that sweet smile upon those chewed up, pink little lips.

Already he could feel himself healing, the wound at his side closing into little more than a thin cut; he would heal on his own then, slowly but surely, the danger having passed from him as quickly as it had taken the boy to bite into his wrist. Pulling away, gently, not wishing to tear the soft flesh any further, the Prince of Gehenna bows his head to a mortal, a sight that would have brought derision and disgust from his fellow princes, his "kin", however it mattered very little to him in that moment. This child was a prince in his own right, his savior, pulling him from the grasps of death without asking a thing in return. Smiling, closing his eyes as he continues to cradle so small a hand, Mephistopheles brushes his lips against the wound, smiling as a dark smoke covers the gap of flesh with a cooling sensation, stitching the wound back together with careful precision, "I will not forget your kindness, Jim Macken. If you ever have need of me, merely speak my name; I will come to you, as swiftly as my feet can carry me..."

The child might have said something more, his voice a small, muffled whisper as the world around the demon swirls and darkens, called once more to his realm beneath the Earth; he would finish licking his wounds in quiet solitude, the taste of one so pure lingering upon his tongue, Mephistopheles smiling as he reaches cold fingertips to his lips, closing his eyes at the lingering warmth still tingling across the sensitive skin, "Jim Macken...I will be certain to repay your kindness in full."


End file.
